To the true temple of the soul.
Hope, like a weary pilgrim, kneeling,
Stoops at the shrine
And worships with a holy feeling,
Half human seeming, half divine.
Now thoughts flit through fond mem’ry’s temple
To times of old,
When worship at the heart’s high altar—
Pure as the stars—but ne’er so cold.
And ’mid the future’s sky is gleaming